


Spilled Blood Never Dries

by Lolymoon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Post 5x05, Regal Believer, Stable Queen, Swan Queen undertones, Swan-Mills Family, brief mention of Robin, brotp or not you decide, but only in the first part, star stickers, trying to kill people with feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lolymoon/pseuds/Lolymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina and Henry have a talk after looking into the dream-catcher and confronting Emma. Regal Believer sweetness and a bit of pain. Sorry for the Stable Queen feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilled Blood Never Dries

_The dream is a memory at first._

_Your sensations are heightened – you feel more than you should the hot throbbing on the side of your skull, the gentle tug of your matted hair, the stickiness of the blood drying there. Your vision is distorted, the stables shimmering and shaking before your eyes. But the scene is vivid, the remembrance clear, alive and beating, once again._

_You've been searching for the quiet, the loneliness and safety, but as you step into the building you're met with the glow of flickering torches and the cool calm eyes of a sixteen-years-old boy._

_“Lady Regina,” he gasps in a whisper, and you've taken a step back, holding on to the door without realizing, your hand curled into a fist, pressing against your chest, and he looks worried._

_“Daniel,” you say in the lowest whisper, as if your voice could betray you, and as the North wind rattles against the walls, the stable boy walks to you and usher you inside, closing the door to the malicious night. He lifts his oil lamp, revealing your face to his eyes, and they widen, like a wave._

_“You're injured.”_

_You raise slow and quaking fingers to your temple, brushing just under the wound, with a smile you hope brave but feels tearful._

_“It's silly. I had a nightmare and hit my head against the headboard.”_

_“And you've come all the way here in the middle of the night with an open wound? That's... Miss, that's really dangerous.”_

_“I didn't ask for your opinion! And what are_ you _doing here?”_

_You want to bite, to push him further and further away, that boy with the smile of a friend and the knowing eyes that pierce through all your layers. You don't want him to notice, the pain and the shame and the madness of your family, the madness swirling in your own veins, waiting to take hold on you one day, and carry you into the dark. You don't want him to look at you with anything but affection, and the worst thing is, he always does, even when you're lashing out, even when he's angry at you, you always see the care shining there like the early sun in a morning sky._

_He backs down from the fight, doesn't rise to the bait, but his hand wraps around your elbow, delicate despite its roughness, warm despite the chill in your soul._

_“Jewel's about to foal. Come and look.”_

_There's the roundest belly you've ever seen, and tired brown eyes sinking into your own. Your mouth brushes the tender, velvety nose in an affectionate greeting. You've learned to ride on that mare, your father's chest large and strong against your back, you felt as if nothing could harm you then, never on the back of a horse, never in your father's arms._

_“We have a little time yet. We should take care of your wound.”_

_You sit on the straw – you hide your smile as Daniel lays a saddle blanket for you first, blushing and muttering about how ladies shouldn't be sitting on the stable's floor – and his knee brushes your thigh as he sits cross-legged on the ground close to you. The oil lamp stays on the floor, lighting his face in an eerie gleam, sharpening his features, softening his mouth. He pours a little water from his canteen on his handkerchief (“It's clean, Miss” – you laugh), and gently brings it to your face, applying a little pressure on the wound. You wince, but this doesn't sting as much as the blow did._

_“It's cold.”_

_“I know.”_

_He dabs at your skin a few times, and you feel yourself lean into his touch, the tension in your body loosens and flees, and you realize he's holding your chin in place with his other hand, and you can feel his breath, floating over your face even as he tries to hold it back, to remain quiet and unaffected._

_But he is as troubled by this moment as you are, you see it in his parted lips, feel it in the reverence of his gestures._

_“This is ugly. Seems like the headboard hit_ you _. It must have been some violent nightmare you had, Lady Regina.”_

_“The very worst.”_

_“The blood is dried, though. It looks like a several-hours wound.”_

_“Does it?”_

_You're whispering now, he feels closer than ever, you're staring at his eyelashes, luscious and light, at his straight nose, his full lips... His fingers travel over your face until they cup your cheek._

_“Do you want to tell me something, Regina?”_

_It's the first time he's used your name without a title and you can't breathe._

_And then Jewel neighs and stomps and you both rushes to the mare's side._

_It takes two hours yet, and you're both exhausted by the time the tiny creature whines on the floor of the box, but neither of you notice how your legs are trembling, or your sweaty brows. Daniel is smiling, cooing at the horse licking her young, and you're laughing, light-headed, and the pain is pounding in your skull but the soaring of your heart dulls the pain. You take Daniel's hand and press it, like you press on a heart to make it beat._

_“Is this real?” you sigh, and he beams at you, sneaks an arm around your waist, holds you up._

_The mare is neighing softly, bumping her nose with the foal's, and it's a tableau of love and family and comfort that makes you ache._

_“She loves it already. The mother.”_

_“It's a she.”_

_There are tears gathering in your eyes, you don't notice them until they spill on your cheeks._

_“It's beautiful,” you choke, and Daniel looks at your wound, and his eyes are not a clear sky anymore._

_And suddenly there are two hands cradling your face like it's a broken bird and very soft, very shy lips pressing against your own, and your heart is moaning in your chest._

_He's the first to let go, looking at you with clouds of fear and desire in his eyes._

_“Lady Regina... I...”_

_You lick your lips, relishing on the lingering taste of sweetness, wishing for more, afraid to wish, and you smile._

_“Don't call me that, please. I don't want to be a lady. I want to be your friend.”_

_He smiles too, with that lovestruck look he sometimes gets when he's looking at you, and you wonder how you didn't see it blossom._

_“That was my first kiss,” he says in awe, and looks away, a bit sheepish, until you reach for his mouth with your fingertips, caressing with wonder the thing that made you feel so good for once._

_“It was mine too.”_

_He kisses your fingers, barely a touch on the pads, and you lose your hands into his hair, bring your mouths together once again, and it moves, and swells like the sea, it's tentative at first, both of you inexperienced, but calm, and soon it feels true like a melody in tune, and your lips part slightly as you both whisper between hushed breaths and stolen kisses:_

_“I like this.”_

_“You taste like rain and flowers.”_

_“It's a little wet.”_

_“It's warm.”_

_“You're so soft...”_

_The door bangs open behind you, and it's not a memory anymore, as you jump around and look back into the eyes of a woman who shouldn't be there, who doesn't exist yet._

_“What are you doing here?”_

_She doesn't speak, her long blonde hair glimmering softly in the dimmed darkness, her white clothes blinding, and she's weeping, a hand on her mouth, blood running from her nails down to the back of her hand to her wrist, staining the immaculate sleeve of her dress._

_“Emma?”_

_“It was for the best. Trust me.”_

_You feel something drop behind you and you don't want to look, you don't want to, but your mind is never merciful._

_You turn around and scream as you stare at the fallen body of your first love, and the gaping wound on his chest, oozing blood._

 

Regina jerked awake as her scream began to make its way out of her throat, she caught it just in time before it'd wake the slumbering body beside her own. Her heart was pounding so loud in her chest, pressing against her ribs and lungs, and she felt about to throw up. She barely cast a glance at Robin, throwing her legs off the bed and standing up, rushing out of the room, not trusting herself not to make any noise if she stayed. Her legs were shaking badly as she made her way to the master bathroom in the hallway. She stumbled on the tiles, hissing at the cold, and caught herself on the sink. She didn't raise her eyes to the mirror; she knew what she would find, she’d woken up from such nightmares for most of her life. A gaunt, yellow-tinged face, hair with sweat sticking to her forehead and curling around her temples, lips pale and wobbling, the dark rings that were rarely brought by sleeplessness but by fretful sleep, and the eyes. Above all, the eyes, that relived the scene on repeat.

One of her worst character's traits, she can't never let go of things. Feelings that dull and smooth over time, she doesn't have those, they're always sharp, always vivid, always flowing back and hitting her at the most unexpected time. Her heart is a perfect freezer, keeping the pain unspoiled forever.

Same goes with her nightmares. Except that she doesn't know whether she can't let go of them, or they can't let go of her.

She splashed her face with water, drank it until she choked and her mouth stopped being so dry, and then sat on the toilets for several minutes, struggling to catch her breath.

She hadn't been ready to face this heartache again.

She hadn't been ready to have another monster invade her dreams.

There was no point in pretending she would sleep any more tonight. Slowly, she got up, frowning at the damp sleeves of her silk pajamas because of the careless way with which she threw water over her face. The little details were what she needed to focus on, what kept her sane. She had a flash of blood-stained sleeves, of red blooming on a white dress like a flower ( _“trust me”_ ) and she gasped and pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing herself to exhale slowly. She soaked up the sleeves, wrapping a towel around each of them, and went out of the bathroom.

Years of habit made her look towards Henry's room, and she frowned as she saw the light glowing under his door.

She hesitated.

 

He hadn't wanted to talk to her. She'd dropped the dream-catcher, and ran after him on the stairs, her heart lurching in her throat, nearly sobbing his name. But he'd closed the door behind him, yelling that he didn't want to talk to anyone right now, that he _couldn't_ – and the tears in his voice made her feel like she was dying inside.

She'd stayed behind his door, waiting, but he hadn't opened, she'd listened to his muffled sobs while holding back her own and pressing her cheek against the wood so hard it hurt. Finally, she had let out a long sigh, and gave the only comfort she could beside a mother's hug:

“I love you, Henry.”

The only thing that had allowed her to tear herself off the door was Henry's croaked reply:

“I love you too, Mom.”

 

She thought about it as she waited in the hallway, the chill of the night sipping into her clothes, biting at her wrists, and after a deep breath, she walked over to Henry's room and gently knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said a small, hoarse voice and she entered, quietly closing the door behind her and taking in her son's appearance.

He was sprawled on the bed, his clothes still on, shirt and jeans and even his shoes, his eyes red as if he'd contracted an allergy. There was a book laying on the floor, the pages folded as if it'd been thrown carelessly or in a fit of anger. As she walked closer, she saw it was the New York's photo album. She picked it up, closed it gently, and put it on the shelf next to his bed. He was watching her, exhausted yet alert, and she felt herself growing self-conscious, afraid to hurt him further in his heartbreak, so she slipped into a comfortable role and glared at his shoes, tutting gently. He rolled his eyes but said nothing, and she went to remove them, and placing them carefully by the bed. She sat next to him then, and he shifted a bit to make room for her.

When she went to take his hand, he let her, clutching hard at her fingers.

“You can't sleep either?”

His voice was so rough from crying it felt like an adult's voice. She tried to smile, caressing the back of his hand with her thumb.

“That's not a reason to take example on me. As you told me yourself when you ate that second pizza, you're a growing boy, and you need sleep, Henry.”

“I can't. I can't stop thinking. It's like there’s too much noise in my head and it doesn't stop.”

She brought his hand to her mouth and gave it a tender kiss.

“I know baby.”

“You talked with her.”

She shivered under the ice in his tone.

“I did.”

“So what did she say? Did she try to make excuses or did she just – or she just didn't care?”

“Henry.”

He turned his face away from her, his features disturbed by anger and heartbreak, and she cupped his chin gently between her thumb and index, bringing him back to focus on her.

“Henry, of course she cares. She loves you.”

“Yeah? So how could she do this? How? Why did she want to hurt me so badly, what did I do –”

“You did nothing wrong, nothing,” Regina whispered urgently, giving his chin a firm little tug. “We don't know all the answers yet, but that had nothing to do with – it was Emma's choice. She's the one who did something wrong.”

He swallowed heavily, his eyes constantly shifting from her own to the side.

“So that's it then? She's gone. It's too late. She's evil for good. And we can't bring her back?”

“It's not too late. Henry, look at me. It's not. We will find a way to get Emma back from this darkness, I promise. I will do whatever it takes.”

Henry chewed on his lips, looking away once again with a frown, and she let go of his chin, an uncomfortable feeling creeping up her spine at the lack of confidence Henry was showing.

“You don't believe I can do this?”

“It's not that, Mom. It's...”

He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling.

“I'm not sure I want her back.”

Her heart sunk into her stomach.

“Henry, don't – ”

“She did it on purpose, Mom. She needed me to be heartbroken, and she lied about it, she made all this happen, the curse, our memories, so I would never know about it, and all day she's been pretending with me that she was still my mom and the same person I've always known, but she lied. How can she care about me when she lied like that?”

That was so not where she wanted the conversation to go, but she didn't really have a choice. It hurt too much to let Henry think he wasn't loved, and it scared her too much to see him slip on the path of rage and betrayal.

“Henry, I lied to you before. I did horrible things too. But that doesn't mean I didn't care about you, or stopped loving you when I did them.”

“I know. You did most of it for me.”

“And you've forgiven me.”

It almost sounded like a question, like a frightened hope, like she still couldn't believe it entirely. But Henry nodded, resting his hand over her wrist, playing with the now almost dry sleeve of her pajamas.

“So what makes you think you will never forgive Emma?”

“It's different. You never did anything to hurt me. You never meant it.”

He cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowing, a flash of hurt running through his eyes.

“Are you trying to make excuses for her?”

“I would never excuse anyone who dared hurt you,” she snarled, then clenched her jaw as she tried to rein her fury in. She wanted to set a good example to Henry, not encourage him to give in to his rage. But he looked at her with a small smile, as if this demonstration of fierce love had appeased him a little.

“What I'm trying to say, Henry, is that... Emma has to deal with something I never had to. This curse, the Dark One, it makes you... it makes you look at the world with a warped vision. It feeds on your fears and it exploits them to make you give in to power. It's... harder to fight something like that. You know it took me years to battle my own demons.”

“Yeah. But it didn't take you seconds to give in either, right? It's been only six weeks...”

“And that is how you can understand that something incredibly powerful has taken hold of your mother.”

Henry still looked stubborn, and she understood, she knew how much easier it was to write someone off as a villain and force yourself to hate them than it was to love them despite their flaws and mistakes and wrongs. She understood why Henry had acted like he did when he discovered the book. And if she'd listened to her own feelings and her own hurt, she would readily agree with him and desire nothing more than roast Emma on the spot for what she put her son through, for how she manipulated him, for the sheer ruthlessness of it all. But she also knew those weren't feelings that lead you to good places, she knew that nothing worthwhile grew out of grudge. She knew she didn't want her little boy exposed to this particular darkness.

“Henry. Listen to me please. I know you're angry, and hurt, and you feel terribly betrayed. And Emma will have a lot to answer for. But don't give up on her just yet. You have a good heart, a strong, beautiful heart, and I don't want it to fester with hatred. You decide what you can forgive or not, and you can take all the time you need to deal with your feelings. But I just want you to know that forgiving is as much for yourself as it is for the person that wronged you. Perhaps more. For now, we must find a way to stop Emma from doing any more harm around her. But I'm not giving up on freeing her from this dagger. She's been our hero for years; now she's the one who needs our help.”

She searched his face until the pig-headedness that looked so much like Emma’s eventually faded. She kissed Henry’s brow, and smoothed back his hair, stroking it gently, waiting for him to process her words. Eventually, he sighed, and gave her a tiny nod.

“I understand. I'll think about it.”

“Good. Now, young man, don't you think you should get some sleep?”

He scoffed, giving her a pointed look.

“It's useless, Mom, it's almost 4am.”

He scooted a little further to the left on his bed, and patted the spot beside him.

“Stay with me for a bit?”

She smiled, and lay down next to him, opening her arms to let him settle against her side. It was awkward, the bed too small, his legs bumped into her own and she let out an 'oof' and a laugh as he all but dropped his head on her chest like it was suddenly too heavy for his neck. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but it was a perfect fit. He laughed too, and they stayed quiet for a while, listening to the other's breathing, Henry's deep and strong, hers smooth and loose.

“You remember when we used to make a hut in my room, with the sheets and all? And we pretended we were on a ship in space? And you spent hours putting all those star stickers on the big sheet above our head?”

“You wanted 111 stars precisely. What's a mother to do?”

“And we played pretend and you told me stories and I tried to read to you but I didn't know all the words yet.”

“You did very fine,” Regina said, her lips curling softly with a sweet nostalgia, running her finger along the bridge of Henry's nose.

He scrunched up his face under the light tickling and chuckled.

“It was so much fun.”

She waited a beat, and then, with a casual wave of her hand, beige sheets appeared out of thin air and were set around them like the most luxurious tent. Tiny stars – actual stars, so close you could feel their soft heat – were floating above their heads, gently bumping against the sheet every now and then.

“Mom,” Henry beamed, then snickered, as if he couldn't believe what a big sap she was.

She closed her arms around him, smiling, her eyes overflowing with light.

“Nothing's too good for my little prince.”

He stared at the stars for a long time, watching with fascination the eerie ballet they made under the makeshift hut, but something was tugging at his heart, the call of past memories that didn't bear any change, and his voice sounded very small when he said:

“I think I prefer the stickers.”

A flick of Regina's fingers reunited him with his childhood friends. He put his hands above his mother's, where they were resting on his chest, and held on.

“It must have been hard for you too. Watching that scene. It must have brought back memories of Daniel.”

She didn't tense like she used to. She had time to tell him about Daniel while they were scrutinizing the book from cover to end in their quest for the author. She had time to tell him the truth, not the make-believe stories she had invented before, when he was very young and wanted to know where his middle name came from, and did he ever have  a dad, and was she ever in love?

They had time to learn together, and grow.

“It has,” she simply said.

He snuggled deeper into her embrace, his eyes locked on the fake stars.

“Tell me a story about him.”

She wondered if she would able to reclaim her memories from the claws of her nightmares. She wondered how much power words had to heal all the little wounds that never stopped bleeding. And she reminded herself that she was holding in her arms someone who knew exactly how powerful words are.

She trusted in his belief.

“It was a cold winter night, when I was fifteen...”

**Author's Note:**

> I feed on feedback.


End file.
